


Your Frequency

by Elleh



Series: Office AU [5]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Office, Blow Jobs, Floor Sex, Frottage, Is it a floor if they are in a futon i wonder, M/M, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 19:24:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15201749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleh/pseuds/Elleh
Summary: It’s loud. He’s so loud at everything he does, even when he’s quiet and calm and silent. His smile is loud, his laugh is loud, the wicked of his character is loud, his whole being is loud. Yahaba’s playing the loudest sound all the time, and it feels as if Kyoutani’s the only one capable of reaching his frequency.He’d be lying if he said it was uncomfortable or annoying. Kyoutani wants it to be those things, but despite himself, he knows it isn’t. It doesn’t sting anymore, seeing Yahaba lost in his laugh, Kyoutani no longer the joke but the cause. Maybe he’s never been the joke, maybe he’s learned to become the reason, of wanting to be the reason.Sometimes he feels on the top of the world when he makes Yahaba laugh.





	Your Frequency

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my lovelies! I come back with the office au, also known as the: i wanna write porn and this is the perfect excuse! And since i've been wanting to write kyouhaba for a long time, what better au than this (LOL - someone should keep me away from the porn).
> 
> This is cheesier than it is smutty, but I tried. It's also way longer than I intended it to be.
> 
> (i might be writing some more of these two because i have ideas™, smutty smutty ideas, and fluffy fluffy ideas)
> 
> Anyway, I enjoy it, i guess

Yahaba’s going hard on the sake tonight.

Kyoutani notices because he’s ended up two seats from him. He notices because the bottle has stayed on Yahaba’s side of the table for the length of the dinner, and of course the way Yahaba’s yukata opens every time he grabs the stupid thing and his flushed skin shows has nothing to do with it.

Kyoutani tries to take his eyes away. He _really_ tries. But it’s as if the heat of the baths has clinged onto Yahaba’s skin, together with Kyoutani’s gaze. The second Kyoutani tears his eyes away, a wave of warmth hits his neck, and he’s back at looking at Yahaba and his loud, loud laugh.

Gods, how can he be that loud? No wonder he can’t keep his attention elsewhere. Forget the alcohol and that stupid yukata. It’s Yahaba’s intense tone what’s holding Kyoutani’s eyes in place.

“He’s drinking too much,” he mutters to no one in particular.

Not like anyone seems to care, anyway. They are all just a step behind Yahaba, and fast approaching the worst hangover of their lives. What’s the point, Kyoutani doesn’t know, but he sips from his coup, grimaces, and decides he’s going to be the only boring shit tonight. He just needs to finish his dinner, manage to keep all the dishes and cups on the table while he’s still sitting, and then he can vanish into his room. Alone.

“Kyoutani! Kyoutani, my man! Come here. Come _here_.”

Kyoutani doesn’t come, but his traitorous eyes fall on Yahaba and his wide, wide smile, almost as loud as his laugh. Something weird happens in his chest when their eyes meet, and suddenly Kyoutani’s coughing his lungs out.

How lame. Red creeps up his neck and flares in his checks when the pain turns into shame. Yahaba’s laugh isn’t mocking, but everything Yahaba does in Kyoutani’s direction usually _is_. So he reacts accordingly: with a burning feeling of loss and embarrassment, translated into a meaningless rage he has trouble controlling.

“Are you okay?” Yahaba’s close now, and so is his laugh. Kyoutani barks at him when his hand brushes his shoulder. “Oh come on. Play nice. I just wanna make sure you don’t die.”

“I’m not dying,” Kyoutani mutters, eyes away from Yahaba for the first time this evening. Yahaba’s so warm Kyoutani has his hand branded on his skin, even through the fabric. “Get off me.”

“Come on,” Yahaba pouts. Kyoutani suffers a minor heart attack when the stupid idiot falls into him, the whole of his chest against his back, cheek against cheek. The thought of Yahaba’s lips so close dizzies Kyoutani enough to almost miss his next words. “You aren’t drinking. Why aren’t you drinking.”

“Don’t want to. Now get off.”

“But you are _so_ comfortable.” Shit, Yahaba’s nice nature and slender body are deceiving. He weighs way more than he looks, and Kyoutani has to force his upper body to stay straight. “You are such a jerk. You shouldn’t be comfortable.”

“For god’s sake, get off me!”

Kyoutani should have seen it coming. Yahaba has been drinking like a dead man in a desert, after all. It was obvious the second Kyoutani used a bit more strength than necessary he’d crumble like a house of cards.

If Kyoutani were smarter when Yahaba was concerned he’d have predicted it. He has been noticing the way he leans to the sides, laughs at his own jokes and how blurry his eyes are. He has been staring at Yahaba long enough to know what patches of skin get red when he gets drunk and how effusively he moves his arms when he tries to explain something. But since Kyoutani’s brain does weird shit every time Yahaba’s in the picture, he has just a second to act, now.

It is _not_ a subconscious desire hidden in him what brings Kyoutani to grab Yahaba by the waist. It is _not_ a confusing and infuriating dream he’s had many, many times, what makes him end up with Yahaba on his lap, so close their heartbeats brush each other.

It’s just shit that happens. Shit that makes Kyoutani’s heartbeat race so fast he’s not sure he can hear anything else beside his blood rushing everywhere.

There’s a long, charged silence on the table. And then, “Wow. Nice catch.”

Watari howls, Kunimi claps and Kyoutani is so red by now he could audition to become the new dot of Japan’s flag. The insanity of hiding his face on the crock of Yahaba’s nape crosses his mind, and his embarrassment is such Kyoutani stops himself from doing so a mere inch from reaching Yahaba’s skin.

This is bad. This is oh, so bad. Yahaba moves on him, half turns and puts his arm over his shoulders. His yukata opens. it strikes Kyoutani like a truck, how good he smells.

Fuck.

“You _are_ comfortable. I’m staying here. This is way better than the tatami. And look! More sake!”

The waitress looks at them funny, but always polite she smiles at Kyoutani with something akin to pity and gives Yahaba the damn thing. There’s not enough time to stop her from doing so, and now that Yahaba’s under his hands, Kyoutani’s not sure it’d be a wise move either way. If Yahaba can get nasty when he’s sober, Kyoutani can only imagine how hard he can punch once he’s drunk.

“Tone it down,” he growls when Yahaba opens the bottle and takes the longest sip. “You’re gonna pass out at this rate.”

“That’s the point, Ken-chan.”

Kyoutani’s heart stops beating altogether.

“What did you call me?”

He wants to _murder_. Himself more than anyone else, because it’s unbelievable hearing that stupid nickname has turned him on. But fuck Yahaba and his way of wiggle his ass to find a better position when he’s sitting _on Kyoutani’s crotch and calling him cute names_.

Death. Death is what awaits Kyoutani at the end of this night.

“I called you _Ken-chan_. Isn’t that your name?”

“I’m not a fucking kid!”

Why is Yahaba still in his lap? Why is no one questioning the fact Yahaba has sat down on _him_ and is not planning on moving any time soon?

Why is no one saving him?

“Oh, I know.”

Kyoutani’s mouth dries. There’s no haze in Yahaba’s eyes when he says that, there’s no mistaking the intonation of that last word. And if this keeps on, there’ll be no doubt Kyoutani’s driving fast down the horniness line, and that he’ll crash soon.

“You’re drunk.”

“And you aren’t. Boring.”

Yahaba leans onto Kyoutani and takes another sip from the bottle. It looks long and thirsty, but Kyoutani has a perfect view of Yahaba’s throat. He only swallows once.

“You should stop drinking,” Kyoutani says again, anyway.

“And you should stop being so boring.”

Yahaba’s pissed, now. Kyoutani can’t step out of his own astonishment when Yahaba, weak as a baby deer, tries to stand, hands on Kyoutani’s shoulder to keep himself from eating the floor. “You are boring. And a fucking idiot. You know that? You are an idiot, Kyoutani. And I could punch you.”

 _Please don’t_. Kyoutani doesn’t have enough hands to protect himself _and_ keep Yahaba on his feet.

“The only idiot here is you, drinking more than you can manage.”

“Who says I can’t manage?”

Kyoutani arches an eyebrow and takes his hands off him. As soon as his palms are away, Yahaba leans, leans, leans to the side. Way too fast.

There’s a collective gasp when Kyoutani grabs him again. A blush has covered Yahaba’s face, the worst of the sake finally reaching his brain.

“You are careless. And stupid.”

“Whatever.”

He looks sick. Kyoutani stares at him, trying to compose himself, the conversations and the laughs around growing enough to be bothering. There’s a telling frown on Yahaba’s face, and Kyoutani sighs deeply for the loss of his mental sanity.

“Come on. Let’s go to your room before you ruin everyone’s night.”

“I can go on my own.”

Kyoutani groans, frustrated.

Yahaba has the nerve to tear his eyes away, embarrassed, and Kyoutani’s chest fills with a heavy need to lift him up his shoulder and yell like a caveman after chasing down a pray.

“Come on. If you throw up on me I’ll murder you.”

The others on the table complain and yell till Yahaba’s face go from sick to one-second-from-dying. Kyoutani ignores them and walks straight to the corridor, hand on Yahaba’s elbow. The second the shadows of the door hides them from the others’ gazes Kyoutani puts Yahaba’s arm over his shoulders, and his own around Yahaba’s waist.

It’s telling enough when Yahaba doesn’t complain and in fact puts on Kyoutani half of his weight.

“You are fucking heavy.”

“Shut up and take me to my room before I throw up here.”

Kyoutani does, but he groans and growls to let Yahaba know he’s not happy with this. It’s worrisome that Yahaba has no strength to answer, but when Kyoutani looks at him to make sure he’s not dragging around a corpse, he finds Yahaba’s gaze focused on his feet.

“You’re barefoot.”

Kyoutani chokes on his spit. Again.

“Have a problem?”

Yahaba frowns, deep in thought.

“You have beautiful feet.”

Kyoutani stops dead on his tracks. His eyes are fixed now in front of him, Yahaba’s heat too real on his side to pretend he’s not there. This is not happening. Yahaba hasn’t been staring at him funny, not has he been flirting with him for only god knows how long. It’s the alcohol, and probably the bath and the beauty of nature. It’s a mess Kyoutani’s mind's made up, and it’s not, under any circumstances, something he needs to act upon.

So Kyoutani starts walking again. Yahaba mutters something Kyoutani ignores, but follows his lead. There’s no more talk about feet or laps or comfortable surfaces of each other’s bodies. By the time they make it to the room Kyoutani has built a plan, he can’t answer Yahaba’s gaze, and he’s sweating a bit too much.

“You look worse than I feel.”

“Just get fucking inside.”

Yahaba tries to open the door. He tries and tries and fails and fails because he’s clumsy like a newborn when he wants to be, and he’s not fooling anyone.

“Just put it in!”

“Oh, Ken-chan, at least take me to dinner first.”

Kyoutani rips the key from his hand without an answer, opens the door and shoves Yahaba inside the room before the blush has even reached his eyebrows.

“You fucking suck,” he growls enraged.

Yahaba’s smile is sharp and known and way too sober.

“I do, you know. I do _suck_.”

Kyoutani’s blush is now past his hairline and crawling down his back. The innuendo. The fucking, stupid innuendo. Doesn’t Yahaba have any self-preservation? Isn’t he assuming too much? Walking sinuously, leaving the door open, making those damn replies as if they meant nothing.

“You are—“

Almost dead. Kyoutani manages to jump in and grab him before he crashes against a corner, and he groans in pain when they both end on their knees.

“I don’t feel good.”

“Of course you don’t, stupid idiot. Stop grabbing me and let me help you stand before you pass out on me.”

“I shouldn’t have drank that much.”

“No kidding.”

“Oh god.”

Kyoutani licks his lips at the taste of Yahaba’s fear. He takes him gently into the bathroom, sits him on the floor and wets a towel. “Put it on your forehead. Don’t lay down, and throw up in there,” he points at the toilet. “I’m gonna grab a bottle of water. Stay put.”

Yahaba manages to nod, getting paler by the second. Kyoutani hesitates, the image of coming back to find Yahaba unconscious keeping his feet from exiting the bathroom.

“Don’t fucking die on the thirty seconds I’ll be gone.”

Yahaba only moans in answer.

The time the bending machine takes to eat Kyoutani’s coin and throw a cold bottle of water feels like the longest wait in Kyoutani’s life, and if he yells at the stupid thing to work faster only he and the machine know.

The bathroom feels pretty much the same once he gets back. Yahaba looks as white as the walls and there’s sweat on his temples and on his upper lip, the sound of the toilet flush echoing on the pipes.

“Feel better now?”

Yahaba shakes his head and down the toilet he goes again.

There’s no much thought guiding Kyoutani’s actions. He kneels beside Yahaba and tries to keep the locks of hair out of the way. He grimaces, washes Yahaba’s sweat and dirt once he’s done, and opens the bottle of water before handing it to him.

Yahaba’s eyes are glassy and confused and although his hands are shaking like crazy, he takes the bottle and takes a short sip.

“Done?”

There are tears in Yahaba’s eyes. Kyoutani can see them, being this close. They stay put when Yahaba nods, but they give him an air of vulnerability that takes Kyoutani completely by surprise.

It’s almost tender. And he hates how warm it makes him feel.

“Wash, and I’ll make your bed.”

“You don’t need to take care of me,” Yahaba says, voice choked and rough.

“I am not such a fucking jerk. Wash your face. And your teeth.”

Yahaba almost smiles at that grunted order, but Kyoutani’s too busy running away from the sight of him to properly see.

It takes Kyoutani less than three minutes to lay down the futon, which gives him two of standing awkwardly in the middle of the room with no clue as to what he should be doing next. More water? Turn on the air conditioning? Combust so he’ll have an excuse to not be here? He could be rude and just growl something nasty at Yahaba before disappearing –the temptation of doing just that is choking,– but when Yahaba comes out of the bathroom with water still running down his chin, any thought of moving simply vanishes.

He looks exhausted and soft and Kyoutani has the urge to hold him close and bury his nose on the hollow of his neck.

Shit.

Yahaba takes a look at the room, – thank god he’s not looking at Kyoutani, staring at him like a fish seeing the sun for the first time,– and a small smile takes over his lips.

“It’s disturbing seeing you being so nice.”

The comment it’s exactly what one would expect from Yahaba, being the asshole that he is, even when he pretends otherwise. Kyoutani snorts. “I _am_ nice. You’re the one who’s a jerk.”

Yahaba forces a frown, as if he were trying to suppress the tightening of his lips. “True, that. So you’re just an idiot, then.”

Kyoutani growls this time. “Do you want to get your ass kicked? Go to fucking bed.”

Yahaba’s eyes fall on Kyoutani at that aggressive order and stay on Kyoutani’s face till a wave of heat covers Kyoutani’s skin. God, being stared at so bluntly is not good for his heart.

“What? Do I have shit on my face?”

“Thanks,” Yahaba says instead of answering. “For taking care of me. I know I’m not your favorite person, to say the least, so this means… quite a bit.”

Kyoutani wants to laugh at that wrong, wrong statement. _You are, you are, you are._  A childish need to say it, to contradict Yahaba just because that’s what they do, to see how he’d react at the sound of that truth, takes over him. _You are one of my favorite persons even if I can’t stand you most of the time_. If honesty could only be that easy.

“Go to sleep.”

“A simple _you are welcome_ would do the trick, you know.”

“Go. To. Bed.”

Yahaba chuckles and steps closer. He smells of mint and fresh water, of clean and sober. He _looks_ sober, which doesn’t help Kyoutani’s sanity when his arm brushes Kyoutani’s on his way to the futon, –with a glare to match–, and a shot short from deadly crosses Kyoutani’s body head to toes.

Kyoutani hasn’t drank alcohol to pretend it is his head, making things up. He might be reserved and he might keep his shit to himself, but he’s not as oblivious as Yahaba thinks him to be. Still, there’s no way he can answer Yahaba’s slight frown and his shaky hands with nothing more than mere cordiality.

This has nothing to do with Kyoutani having a totally inappropriate attraction towards his coworker, whom he wants to punch half the time; this is just a human being aiding another human being. No feelings attached, no attraction attached, and goddammit, no hidden intention of showing Yahaba he’s fucking decent when he wants to be.

Yahaba gets in the futon. Kyoutani can’t decide what to do with himself.

“I’m gonna—“

“Wait. Could you—“ Kyoutani’s staring because that’s what he does with Yahaba. He stares and stares and he sees the blush as if it were the sun rising on the horizon. It’s embarrassed and shy, Yahaba’s gaze locked on his hands, folded on his lap. The stupid yukata is open again. “Look, I hate being sick and I hate being sick alone even more. Could you stay a little bit longer?”

“What? Watching you sleep?” He doesn’t intend his words to come out as harsh as they do, and he regrets them as soon as Yahaba physically contracts.

“Forget it.” There it comes again, the gleam of rage and disdain and disappointment Kyoutani is so used of seeing in his eyes. It strikes him hard, realising it’s the first time he has seen it  in days. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

“Wait a second. It came out wrong,” Kyoutani explains, frustrated at seeing Yahaba layintg down and turning, so Kyoutani can only see his back and his naked nape. “Fucking turn around.”

A loud, fake snore comes as only answer. What an idiot. Kyoutani’s tempted of annoying him till he can’t fake sleep any longer. It’d be too easy. He thinks of doing it and then thinks a bit more and then the moment is gone and Yahaba sighs deeply, half way to sleep, and the clear skin of his nape erases Kyoutani’s will of doing anything beyond learning it by heart.

The world changes around him when Kyoutani focuses his full attention on Yahaba. The room feels sharp and edgy and bright. Yahaba’s breathing gets heavier, and Kyoutani can’t tear his eyes away. _You are a weirdo, get the fuck out of this room, what the fuck are you doing, fuck, Kentarou, get out._ Yahaba makes a small sound of half asleep half awake, and Kyoutani tenses all over.

This is wrong. This is not taking care of a sick person, this is not unattached, and Kyoutani feels so warm he’s not sure if he hasn’t got a fever.

He stands before the image of Yahaba’s nape can get fully branded in his memory. Turning his back on Yahaba isn’t pleasant, and neither is stepping away and opening the door. A muffled sound of complaint or discomfort comes from behind Kyoutani, and he’s oh so tempted of turning around and barking some nonsense about alcohol and sickness and people needing someone to take care of them. Just an excuse to stay longer, to bring back the joyful gleam of flirt to Yahaba’s face. Just a moment longer to enjoy what Kyoutani’s not entirely sure hasn’t been just a fantasy.

The door is soft when it closes after him.

 

*

 

The ryoukan is silent. All of Kyoutani’s coworkers have finally fallen under the weight of the sake and are enjoying the painless sleep before what’ll be the worst day of their lives.

Kindaichi hasn’t come back to the room, so Kyoutani lays alone on the dark. Wondering. It’s stupid, being awake when it’s the calmest moment he’s had in days. He should be taking advantage of the silence and sleep to his heart content, and instead, here he lies, wondering if Yahaba’s dead on his bed.

The logical part of Kyoutani’s brain knows, of all the fears he could have, that one is the dumbest. Of course Yahaba’s not dead. He was fine when Kyoutani left, he’d thrown up all the poison he’d drank and he was sleeping like an ignorant baby.

The logical part of Kyoutani’s brain is not loud enough.

Grunting, Kyoutani checks the time and curses. Four in the morning. He has been staring at the ceiling for almost six hours doing nothing more than pining over a dude. _Yahaba_. He should not be pining over anyone, but more than anything, he should not be pining over Yahaba.

It’s indignation and rage and badly suppressed feelings what throws him out of bed. You know what? Yahaba doesn’t deserve a full healing night of sleep. Not when Kyoutani hasn’t had a damn moment of rest since they met.

Yeah, fuck him. Who cares if he’s drunk and he was sick not even six hours ago. Kyoutani is already walking fast down the corridor. Watari might be on the room, but it doesn’t change a thing. They are inseparable anyway. Together all the time, joking and sharing secrets and being fucking annoying. Watari can listen to Kyoutani’s rant and be thankful he’s not yelling at him too.

Just a few steps more and he’ll be there. And Yahaba will be alive, and probably asleep and enjoying a nice dream. Gods, Kyoutani hopes he’s having the best rest of his life, so the satisfaction of destroying it will be double.

He’s near the onsen now. Another corner and—

“Can we not do this now?”

“When would Iwa-chan like to discuss this, then? It’s not as if you’re giving me any time to _talk privately_ , as things are.”

Kyoutani stops dead on his tracks. _Oh fuck._

“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi sounds pissed and pained and somehow Kyoutani can hear his own emotions on his tone. “Don’t be difficult.”

“I _am_ the one being difficult? You’ve barely talked to me all week!”

“Why do you think that is?”

Kyoutani starts walking again. He doesn't want to know, he doesn’t need to know. This is so not his business, and yet…

Oikawa’s laugh is so similar to Yahaba’s (dry, mean, charged with meaning) Kyoutani finds himself halting again.

“Do you really want me to answer that, Iwa-chan?”

It’s sharp and blunt and oh so full of hidden truths Kyoutani’s feet finally get the message. He’s not walking anymore by the time he turns the corner and the voices have faded, same as his rage. The sound of his heart is so loud it almost covers his pants.

He sprints all the way to Yahaba’s room. The fact the door is open doesn’t reach Kyoutani’s brain till he’s already inside, and by the time the darkness engulfs him Kyoutani can’t bring himself to care.

It’s bothersome, knowing he holds a secret that doesn’t belong to him. It’s heavy and wrong and sweet, because somehow knowing someone else, –Iwaizumi, of all people,– has it eases Kyoutani’s own.

The door opens then and Kyoutani stares at a pale Yahaba for the long second it takes the door to close.

Their breathings mix in the air, warm and charged with words unsaid, the smell of sleep, their synced pants.

Yahaba has ran to the room as well. Which means—

“What are you doing here?”

Kyoutani doesn’t remember. He says, “Making sure you’re still alive.”

“I’m still alive.”

“I can see that,” Kyoutani growls, exasperated. Yahaba stays put, so into the shadows Kyoutani can barely make out his shape.

They share the silence for a long moment. Kyoutani has trouble understanding how his impulses are still ruling his life, when the try and error has proven more times than not that it never works out.

Shit, he wants to run away from this room and he wants to run away _now._

“Are we gonna stand here all night? ‘Cause believe it or not, I need my beauty sleep.”

Kyoutani snorts because he has nothing else to do. He wants to grab Yahaba and apologise for being a jerk, but instead he steps to the side and turns the light on, pulling the cord twice.

Yahaba’s wearing a new yukata, has a bottle of soda on his hand and a soft blush of sleep still lingering on his cheeks. Kyoutani wants to lean forward and smell him.

He’s such a weirdo, goddammit.

“Wanna share?” Yahaba asks, moving the bottle. Kyoutani grunts. “I’ll take that as a yes. Please, come in, feel at home.”

“Where’s Watari?”

“Who knows,” Yahaba shrugs and opens the bottle. He walks around, drinking, drinking, drinking. Kyoutani’s eyes follow every single one of his gulps, the tense lines of his neck, the soft light so ethereal he’s not sure if he hasn’t actually fallen asleep and this is just another dream to add to the list.

The bottle plops when Yahaba takes it away from his lips. There’s a drop at the corner of his mouth, round and free travelling to his chin. Kyoutani can’t stop staring.

“Kyoutani—“

Kyoutani thinks, _stop staring at his lips, stare at his eyes, his fucking eyes,_ but his brain doesn’t process. He feels Yahaba move, slightly to the right, slightly to the left. He leans his head, and Kyoutani follows the movement because his lips move as well.

Yahaba’s smiling now. But because Kyoutani is caught on the light and the charged air and the way Yahaba’s lips are still wet even though they should be dry by now, he misses it. The _hint_ on Yahaba’s smile, always so telling when Yahaba is up to no good.

“Kyoutani,” he says again, and still Kyoutani’s eyes won’t react, “Catch.”

Kyoutani doesn’t catch. In fact, _catch_ is the wrong order because Yahaba, being the little shit that he is, has thrown the bottle without the tap on it.

“Fuck, Yahaba! What the fuck!”

Soda is _everywhere_ : his face, his shirt, his pants; he can even feel it running down his spine, and it’s _awful_.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Yahaba can’t answer, too occupied losing himself on a laugh that will probably wake the whole floor. Kyoutani wants blood. He takes a step forward and Yahaba takes a step back in answer, bent forward, holding his stomach so the fit of laugh doesn’t kill him. Not, at least, before Kyoutani does.

“You’re dead.”

“Your face! Oh, your face!”

It’s loud. He’s so loud at everything he does, even when he’s quiet and calm and silent. His smile is loud, his laugh is loud, the wicked of his character is loud, his whole being is loud. Yahaba’s playing the loudest sound all the time, and it feels as if Kyoutani’s the only one capable of reaching his frequency.

He’d be lying if he said it was uncomfortable or annoying. Kyoutani wants it to be those things, but despite himself, he knows it isn’t. It doesn’t sting anymore, seeing Yahaba lost in his laugh, Kyoutani no longer the joke but the cause. Maybe he’s never been the joke, maybe he’s learned to become the reason, of wanting to be the reason.

Sometimes he feels on the top of the world when he makes Yahaba laugh.

He still wants to murder him now, though. Cursing Yahaba, Kyoutani makes it to the bathroom, where the mirror shows how his hair is wet and flat, there’s a red patch on his cheek where the bottle has hit him and his shirt is, simply, disgusting. Kyoutani takes it off and throws some water over his skin, Yahaba still losing it on the bedroom. Water clears the soda and Kyoutani’s mind.

There’s a glass with Yahaba’s and Watari’s toothbrushes near the sink. Almost a sign sent from the gods. Kyoutani doesn’t need to think about it much.

Yahaba is on his side, on top of the futon, when Kyoutani makes it back. There are tears running down his eyes, his arms are a lock on his middle, and every time a new fit of stupidity overtakes him, he buries his face on the pillow to quiet it down.

Endearing. Kyoutani stares at him, just a bit as to not make it weird. Yahaba doesn’t notice, he’s too far gone to realise the danger he’s under.

Which only brings Kyoutani more satisfaction when the frozen water hits him, head to toes. Yahaba’s voice dies as soon as the first drop touches him, and by the time the glass is empty, his gaze is filled with rage and revenge.

“Serves you right.”

“It’s _freezing_!”

“It’s mid summer. You’re fine.”

A pillow hits Kyoutani’s face.

It’s a battle from that point on. Kyoutani throws the pillow back, right at Yahaba’s smug face. The grunt of pain it causes does weird things to Kyoutani’s stomach, but he doesn’t have much time to relish it, for Yahaba —sneaky little bastard,— kicks his legs, throwing him to the ground.

Kyoutani doesn’t know what happens next. They fight, roughly at first, as if there were an actual goal to this stupid game. They grab each other, hit each other, choke and pin and drag around, until another attack of whatever idiocy had taken over Yahaba before hits him again. Kyoutani stares at him dumbfounded, Yahaba’s skin so close, Yahaba’s eyes so close, Yahaba’s laugh so close, Yahaba’s mouth—

—right there. Kyoutani stares down, because somehow he has managed to win this round, and meanwhile Yahaba laughs and laughs and fills the room with light and joy and something warm that makes Kyoutani shudder.

They are just playing. Yahaba means nothing with this, and even less whatever is filling Kyoutani’s mind.

“You’re staring,” Yahaba pants, laughter still lingering on the corners of his mouth. His hair is a mess, his head leaned to the side, as if he were shy all of the sudden.

Kyoutani wants to kiss the soft skin of his neck.

“You’re loud,” he says instead, because that’s what mouths without a proper connection to their brains do: say stupid things. “Why are you laughing so hard?”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Not that much.”

“Ken-chan, you don’t know how appealing you are, do you.”

Another shudder at that stupid – _perfect_ – nickname. Kyoutani frowns. “I’m not appealing.”

Yahaba shifts, his legs stretching between Kyoutani’s, his hair everywhere on the pillow. His eyes are so clear Kyoutani can almost see himself reflected on them.

He likes the view way too much.

“Oh, you are. In a rough, kind of jerk but tender way.”

“What does that mean.”

Yahaba’s hands move from his own chest to Kyoutani’s, a soft touch. The naked skin of Yahaba’s fingers against his own naked skin wakes every single nerve in Kyoutani’s body. He tenses, a mix of shame, expectations and a fear so heavy it’s impressive it hasn’t killed them both.

“Kyoutani…” Yahaba whispers, reaching forward. Kyoutani can almost feel his lips, his breath. Yahaba’s hands are moving and moving up, up, to the side and—

Kyoutani jumps out of his skin, stumbles over his legs, over Yahaba’s legs, trying to escape the attack of Yahaba’s fingers. There’s air stuck in his chest, in his throat, everywhere, and suddenly, it’s gone. Kyoutani guffaws, unable to hold it in, and does it again and again, trying to get away from Yahaba’s merciless hands.

“Stop— Stop it! Fuck, Yaha—!” More laughter, killing laughter. Kyoutani’s kicking around blindly, on his side, mimicking Yahaba’s position. He can feel tears wetting his skin, and he can’t stop laughing, he can’t get away. “Stop!”

Yahaba ignores him, and instead, gets closer. They are already chest to chest by the time Kyoutani closes his eyes, and no matter how hard he kicks, how loud his voice gets, Yahaba’s there, smiling and tickling him to death.

It takes Yahaba a bit longer to stop, probably some of Kyoutani’s kicking finally doing the job. There’s a lashing pain on his sides, on his ribs, on his stomach. Kyoutani can’t remember the last time he worked out so hard he could feel it the way he’s feeling his body right now. Yahaba’s a monster.

“I swear, I—”

Kyoutani’s words die on his lips when he opens his eyes. Yahaba’s staring at him, the way Kyoutani uses to stare at him. A soft smile, eyes filled with worry and uncertainty and relief.

“That hurt,” Kyoutani whispers. You don’t talk in a moment like this if you want to let it live for a little bit longer.

“I love your laugh,” Yahaba whispers back. Kyoutani’s heart stops. “You should laugh more often.”

“Tickles don’t count as laugh.”

“Of course they do.”

Yahaba’s moving closer, although he’s so close already the open of his yukata brushes Kyoutani’s chest. His hands, deadly weapons just a second ago, are suddenly light on his sides, drawing the lines of Kyoutani’s ribs, giving him goosebumps. Yahaba’s leg shifts, finding room between Kyoutani’s, and when Kyoutani inhales deeply,trying to find a moment of clarity, all he can breathe is Yahaba. Yahaba and his soft smell of sleep and sweat, his warmth and dry mouth, his hands, still at Kyoutani’s side, branding his skin, his sanity, his soul.

Kyoutani wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him with such intensity he can’t fathom a moment in his life he hasn’t wanted to kiss Yahaba.

“Kyoutani…” Yahaba mutters, eyes falling down into Kyoutani’s mouth.

Time stops. Kyoutani can’t feel his own body, and yet, Yahaba’s feels as the realest thing he’s ever touched.

“Yeah?” he manages, rough and silent. Yahaba’s hand is past his chest and into the side of his neck. Kyoutani growls or maybe purrs, who knows, and the weight of his want prompts him to let his head fall on the tatami, baring his throat.

 _I trust you,_ the movement says. If Yahaba bothers to look at it closely, he’ll see the truth behind that naked statement.

Yahaba goes to his elbow, thumb caressing Kyoutani’s pulse. Kyoutani can’t stop staring at the hunger Yahaba’s looking at him with, the flash of want, the _I’m going to…_ right there. The brown of Yahaba’s eyes is burning, his expression as thoughtful and serious as Kyoutani has ever seen in him before.

He wants to say, _Do it, just do it, I will die if you don’t do it_. But the words dissolve every time they find their way into Kyoutani’s throat and find Yahaba’s hand, now covering the width of it. Kyoutani inhales, shakily. His hands hurt, that hard is he closing them.

“Do you understand?” Yahaba finally says. His hand is still on Kyoutani’s throat, holding him down, caressing the air out of him.

Kyoutani nods.

“If we do this,” Yahaba continues, because he doesn’t care a single fuck if Kyoutani’s about to die if he doesn’t taste his mouth, “If we do this, I won’t let it become an _I was drunk accident_.”

“I am not drunk.”

Yahaba’s smile is sharp at the sound of that. _I want you, I want you, I want you._ Kyoutani arches his neck, Yahaba’s thumb fully pressed to his heartbeat. It’s going so fast there’s no way he isn’t feeling it.

“Me either.”

Yahaba’s hand is still on Kyoutani’s throat when he leans forward, it’s still pressing on his vein and his air when their mouths are so close Kyoutani could swear they touch every time they breathe. Kyoutani moans, unsatisfied, and Yahaba’s smile gets wider, and Kyoutani gets madder.

“Ask me.”

“Fuck you.”

Yahaba’s laughing when he finally kisses him. Kyoutani growls in his mouth, and whimpers when Yahaba skips the teasing kisses stage to get directly into the full open-mouth, tongues-tangled sort of kiss Kyoutani has been dreaming for longer than he cares to admit.

It’s intense, but once again, everything Yahaba does rings of intensity. Kyoutani stays under him, opens his legs to make room for him, lets his throat be the wheel with which Yahaba drives his reactions. The tips of his fingers press under Kyoutani’s jaw, and Kyoutani complies and opens his mouth wider. Eyes half closed, he drinks from Yahaba’s sight and makes a strangled sound when Yahaba’s other hand finds his chest, and then his belly, and then his pants.

Kyoutani breaks the kiss, gasping for air.

“You are hard as a rock.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Kyoutani’s neck is so arched his back doesn’t touch the tatami anymore, Yahaba’s hands are so busied with him he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. Yahaba’s breathless over Kyoutani, his eyes burning a path in Kyoutani’s naked skin.

“I could stare at your body for ages. That day we worked the rice fields and you took off your shirt… I could have jumped you.”

“Shut up,” Kyoutani says again, a blush of shame and pleasure firing his face. “Shut up.”

“Kyoutani, I want to fuck you. So. Hard.”

“Oh, god.”

Yahaba’s words are in him now, their touch lingering in his ear, the caress of his mouth on his jaw, his chin, his lower lip. He kisses his way around Kyoutani’s face, worshipping him, and meanwhile his hand pins him down, and the other finds his crotch and strokes his cock.

Kyoutani moans almost as loud as Yahaba does.

“Take off your pants,” Yahaba orders, steel and heat all at once.

Kyoutani feels himself getting harder. Hands shaking, he pushes his pants down his ass and not farther, because although Yahaba has commanded him to do it, he’s not willing to take his deadly grip away from him.

The look in Yahaba’s eyes could kill a man. Kyoutani’s never seen a more beautiful death.

“Open the yukata.” Kyoutani does, stretching his arms forward, shoulders still on the ground. The folds of the yukata tangle on his hands, hiding Yahaba’s body until the obi is properly undone and on the floor.

Yahaba’s naked underneath, and hard. He kneels between Kyoutani’s legs, over his pants, keeping him caged and chained. A king over his rightful land. Kyoutani’s stomach twists, and if his cock gets a shot of pure pleasure, it’s only because of Yahaba’s sight, and not the reality of knowing himself undermined and at the mercy of Yahaba’s harshness.

“Take my cock with your hand.” Kyoutani’s breath catches, and then he follows the order. It’s heavy and warm in his palm, the tip wet and gleaming. Kyoutani wants to stroke him, feel its full shape, but Yahaba’s eyes are nothing but absolute. If Kyoutani does something by his own will, there’ll be consequences.

A shiver runs down his back at the thought of those consequences and the ways Yahaba would punish him.

 _For another day_ , Kyoutani thinks, and the promise reflects in Yahaba’s eyes.

“Stroke it. Once.” Kyoutani does. Yahaba’s head falls back, his hips bucking forward. “Again.” Kyoutani does. “Again. Again. Again. Stop.”

Kyoutani whimpers. Yahaba’s chest swells with a deep breath, and says, “Take your hand off. Now put both your hands above your head. Yeah, like that.” Yahaba lets go of Kyoutani’s body, his throat cold under the summer breeze, his cock wet and needy against his navel. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s sure the fire in his eyes is loud enough.

Yahaba licks his lips. “Open your knees. Don’t move, twitch or touch me.”

Kyoutani’s lungs stop functioning all together when Yahaba bends forward and, with his hands on Kyoutani’s knees, goes down on Kyoutani’s body and takes him in his mouth.

“Oh, fuck, shit, fuck.” Kyoutani bites his mouth, moans as loud as he can, thinks of anything beyond his cock in the warmth of Yahaba’s mouth, trying to follow his orders. His hips are tense, his butt painful from holding his instincts to move down to ashes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Yahaba licks the head of Kyoutani’s cock, his tongue drawing its shape, going under the skin, hollowing his cheeks and then going so far down Kyoutani is not sure if he hasn’t lost himself in his throat. “Fuck, fu—”

Kyoutani’s brain is halfway to fried when Yahaba leans back, leaving him wet and harder still. Kyoutani’s nails dig into his flesh, the muscles in his arm as tense as if he were lifting three times his weight.

“Someday, someday soon,” Yahaba mutters, eyes devouring him. His fingers draw the lines of his stomach, the hollows of his hips. Kyoutani can’t look away, “I will lick you whole. I will spend hours and hours on you, and once I finish, you won’t even remember how to stand straight.”

 _I don’t know how to do that anyway, everytime we share the room I feel my world just crashed on its side_. Kyoutani’s too scared to say that, but he’s urged to say something, so he blurts, “You better fucking keep that promise.”

That sounded way needier than he intended, but Yahaba’s wolfish smile makes up for it.

“Oh, I will. Keep your hands over your head, Kyoutani, and don’t take your eyes off me.”

Yahaba gets rid of the yukata. Kyoutani drinks from his pale skin, the swell of his cock, its red head, the lines of his slender chest, his nipples, the hidden strength in his arms and legs. Kyoutani’s arms tighten, the need to reach forward and touch Yahaba as consuming as Yahaba’s orders. He wants to touch and feel the consequences; he doesn’t want to touch and know how the light in Yahaba’s eyes will shift once he complies to his wants.

For a long moment, Yahaba looks at him. His eyes stay on Kyoutani’s cock, leacking and oh so wanting, travel to Kyoutani’s chest, Kyoutani’s throat, where he can still feel the heat of Yahaba’s grip; to Kyoutani’s mouth, open in silent plea.

Yahaba straddles Kyoutani while his eyes are fixed on his mouth. He crawls over Kyoutani’s pants, over his open legs, and finally settles right on his crotch. Their cocks bump, and Kyoutani whimpers softly. His eyes fall on Yahaba’s navel, on his cock, on how close they are in this position.

“Eyes on me.”

“They are,” Kyoutani growls, because he wants to _see_.

“On my face.”

“Fuck you.”

Yahaba’s hand is on Kyoutani’s throat as soon as the words fade, pushing him back. Kyoutani’s heart skips a beat, and then starts racing so fast he can hear it in every cell of his body. Yahaba’s a breath away now. Kyoutani clenches his hands, stopping himself from grabbing Yahaba by the nape and kissing him.

“I’ll let it pass this time, because I want to do this and you will let me. Now, open your mouth and give it to me.”

Yahaba’s devouring him as soon as Kyoutani does as he’s told. It’s a fight of wills, although Kyoutani has already given himself over Yahaba without a second thought. Pliable under Yahaba’s kiss, Kyoutani answers him when Yahaba’s tongue touches his, moans when Yahaba’s teeth bite him, gasps when Yahaba kisses away all the air and all his thoughts.

“Now, do as I say,” Yahaba tells his open mouth. Kyoutani nods, unable to do anything else.

Kyoutani will be thankful for the order of keeping his attention in Yahaba’s face, later. The way Yahaba’s expression changes when he fists their cocks together, rubbing them once in a lazy thrust, adjusting his grip, doing it again harder. It goes from intense master to broken pleasure, and when Kyoutani moans, encouraging him, his eyes light up in a way Kyoutani will never forget.

Yahaba swirls his hips with expertise, biting his lower lip while his eyes lock on Kyoutani’s, keeping him in place. Trying to hold the urge of bucking his hips to find Yahaba mid way, Kyoutani stiffens, and a sound of pure need escapes his pressed lips.

It’s probably the way Yahaba’s expression goes from controlled to absolute relief what undoes Kyoutani. As if realising he can be himself and ask of Kyoutani as much as he desires, Yahaba gets lost in the rush of his need. His movements stutter, their cocks bumping inside his hand. Kyoutani moans, half a word half a senseless encouraging sound. Yahaba thrusts faster, thoughtless, harder. Kyoutani whispers his name, yells his name, cries breathlessly his name. _Yahaba, Yahaba, Yahaba_. And Yahaba answers him with his cock against his, _Kyoutani, come for me, come, come, come_.

You don’t disobey such an order, so Kyoutani comes with a growl, Yahaba’s name on his lips, with Yahaba’s cum soon on his chest. Yahaba has the most beautiful face Kyoutani has ever seen when he finally reaches orgasm, such pleasure, such relief; he looks like an angel at the doors of a Heaven longly denied.

Yahaba falls on him like a house of cards when the last of the spams disappear. Kyoutani wants to remind him of their cums, drying on his chest, and the fact they need to take a shower now. But Yahaba makes a happy sound, deep down his throat, and Kyoutani forgets everything else except the weight of his body and the heat of their tangled limbs.

“You can move your arms, now.”

Kyoutani blinks, and slowly puts his arms down and around Yahaba’s middle. They hurt like hell.

“Thanks,” Yahaba whispers, nose in Kyoutani’s throat. Kyoutani isn’t sure what he should answer, so he frowns and groans. “You know what I mean.”

“Whatever. Why the heck would you thank me? Not as if I’d done something I didn’t want, you know.”

It’s as much a confession as Yahaba will ever get. Kyoutani feels him shift over him, and resigned, stares down his chest, where Yahaba’s chin is resting. His smile could light the whole country.

“I see,” he says, and everything he’s not saying is as loud as he’ll ever be. Kyoutani pushes him off. “Oh, come on! I didn’t say anything.”

“You fucking say everything with those fucking eyes, you dickhead.”

“Are you blushing, Kyoutani?” Yahaba giggles, the stupid jerk. “Turn around and show me. You look so cute when you blush.”

Kyoutani turns around and points a finger at him. “You are the fucking worst. I’m going to my room.”

“With my cum still warm on you? That’s pretty rude.”

Kyoutani pulls his pants on, turns around and kisses Yahaba’s mouth. He leans back, stares at Yahaba’s cheery eyes, and kisses him again, and again, and again. Yahaba’s lips are so spread by the time Kyoutani growls and stands up it’s as if he hasn’t done anything else in his life but smile.

“Watari will probably be back soon. I’m gonna go. I’ll see you later.”

Yahaba waves goodbye at him, and waits till Kyoutani takes from the bathroom his shirt and puts it on to say, “It’s been you for a very long time, you know.” Kyoutani’s body stops functioning, although his blood is hot and loud. “So, yeah, see you later.”

“Fuck,” Kyoutani mutters, turning around. Yahaba’s watching him with arched eyebrows when Kyoutani takes three long steps and reaches for him again, holding his jaw with his hand. “I’m not a fucking jerk. I said I’ll talk to you later, and I meant it. Now,” Kyoutani kisses him hard, and Yahaba melts on his touch, “I’m gonna go and wash and let Watari have an ignorant night of sleep in his own fucking room, without the knowledge I’ve let you fuck me in here. Go to sleep.”

Yahaba nods, and kisses him, and nods again.

“Next time I’ll let you do the fucking.”

“We’ll see.”

It wins him a laugh that shakes him up.

If Kyoutani could bottle up Yahaba’s laugh, he’d never listen to anything else.

Fortunately, he has the feeling he won’t need any bottle to keep Yahaba’s laugh close for a very long time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (next: iwaoi onsen sex because they deserve it even if the angst is going to kill me)
> 
> (you can find me on [tumblr](https://negare-boshi.tumblr.com/))


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